Going Swimming (Director's Cut)
by Toriana
Summary: Suppose, just for fun, that instead of the Christian milquetoast Christine of the Leroux novel, Christine was raised to worship the Old Germanic Gods, Odin, Thor, Freya, and the rest of the pantheon? How would things change? And if we also say that Christine swam back in Sweden - Then might she try in Paris? And with a lake right There - under her feet?
1. Chapter 1 - In The Dark

**_6-14-2015_**

 ** _Hauling several suitcases behind her, most of them large, all of them labeled with signs on the side, Toriana manages to slowly drag herself and her luggage over the door jamb to a cobweb festooned desk. Pulling out some cleaning supplies and starting to use them, she looks around the mostly empty room. Clearing her throat a little awkwardly, she addresses the room, peering at the shadowy corners in case there's anyone listening. "Well, I am very sorry that I've been away for 18 months, but, I assure you, it was not my decision. I not only got mugged by real life, he then proceeded to back up the truck and run me over. Several Times." She indicates the suitcases piled to one side. Now some of the labels are more visible, reading things like "Deceased Nephew", "Family Feud", "Buried Brother-In-Law", and "Mother Loses Job, now I must support 2 households.". "And besides all that, my story "Going Swimming is now screaming at me "You are NOT through with me, you need to go back and revise Here and Here and Here! Oh, and you forgot to put THIS in!"" She sighs and grips her long hair in both hands. "I give up. I'm putting "Cosmic" on Hiatus, and, will start posting the "Director's Cut Of Going Swimming." Tonight is Chapter 1 - Let's see if people like it._**

 **Going Swimming**

 _Suppose, just for fun, that instead of the Christian milquetoast Christine of the Leroux novel, Christine was raised to worship the Old Germanic Gods, Odin, Thor, Freya, and the rest of the pantheon? {Please note –even today, there are_ _many_ _versions of Asatru – I_ _ **DO NOT**_ _know that this version is the "real way".}Meek and submissive is_ _ **NOT**_ _part of this version of Asatru, in fact, the more skillfully you can fight (or, if you are a bard, perform), the more you are respected in this culture. Now, where there are warriors, there are usually scars, so it's pretty logical that a few (or even a lot) of scars would not be considered a disfiguration._

 _Supposition # 2 – Suppose Christine, while still with her family, was used to swimming whenever and wherever possible, even when the water was not what we would call warm. After all, Sweden has_ _ **LOTS**_ _of coastline, and not a lot of truly warm weather. Or naturally warm water, for that matter._

 **Chapter 1 - In The Dark**

Erik (No-Last-Name) was standing, alone, in the darkest cellar of the Shah of Persia's newly built palace. Not that this fact bothered him. Erik **liked** the dark, truth be told, more than the light. It was not just that his eyes were almost as good as a cat or a wolf when it came to seeing in a low level of light. It was that, in the dark, no-one, including Erik himself, could see the ruined half-face that Erik had been born with.

In all truth, though Erik would never know it, this birth defect was due to four pre-natal factors. First, his mother's half-wild stray "pet" cat had gifted her with Trichinosis. Second, the grain shortage in her village had resulted in her eating bread made from grain infected with Ergot. And most importantly, his mother had taken to the bottle after her husband had passed on, **and** she really did not want to be pregnant in the first place. But Erik 's deformity turned his mother against **him** specifically (which quite often manifested violently) starting the moment she laid eyes on her less than perfect offspring. Nor was she the only one to react negatively.

In the light, strong men had turned pale, or laughed nervously, or looked away, or any one of a hundred other irritating reactions. Even the Shah was not immune. Women's reactions did not vary much from most men's reactions either, except that they tended more towards screaming, crying, or fainting. Even though Erik wore a half-mask much of the time (a habit forced on him **very** young since his lush of a mother was inclined to screaming hysteria whenever **she** saw him bare-faced), there were only two people, in his whole twenty-four years, who could look at Erik straight on and still carry on a normal conversation.

And one of those, the priest whom Erik was named after, had died when he was seven years old. Devastated by the loss of his one real friend, Erik hadn't really struggled when his mother had sold him off to a passing set of gypsies (for the price of several gallons of absinthe, her favorite tipple.) Until he was slammed in a cage and displayed like an animal. By then it was too late to do anything but survive, and learn from observation. He had never left that same cage for more than a few minutes at a time in what turned into almost six very long and pain-filled years.

Erik reflected, more than a bit glumly, that now that the palace was completely finished, and his final inspection of the place was over, he really needed to leave Persia. He had had a few years by now to figure out how the Shah's mind tended to work.

 **T** he Shah, and, more frightening still, the Shah's bloodthirsty, overly-indulged, crazy (though it was suicide to say so out loud) mother, would soon figure that if Erik was dead, the secret ways around the palace would be theirs alone to command. Although, Erik was not stupid enough to tell them **all** the passages he'd arranged, still - it was time to start thinking about where he should go next.

For some reason, what came to mind, over and over again, was the Paris Opera House, the place he had left at the age of sixteen. He had hidden there, scuttling about in the lower levels and basement rooms like a rat, scrounging or thieving meals, or clothes, books, or anything else he had needed, for almost five years before he had decided to try to live like a person, interacting with society. His naive, sixteen year old self had thought it would be an adventure, and, for a year or so, his life had been just that. Then the Shah had heard about him, and Erik had swiftly been issued an offer he couldn't refuse, unless he wanted to die painfully right in the central square of the little town that the travelling fair he had currently been with was in.

Looking back on that half-civilized child, Erik felt a touch of sympathy for his younger self. He had come so far mentally that the waif seemed almost a stranger. The only thing he would regret leaving behind was his friend Nadir, the rest of the over-indulged Persian nobility were merely acquaintances. He had to admit, at least to himself, that the Middle Eastern architecture was stunning, but, as for the music here, having heard really good Opera for five years, he seemed to have developed a preference for that. And the food! Some of those spices could burn your tongue off. In fact, the Shah's mother had a few favorite tortures that started with just that . . . No, better not to dwell on such subjects just now.

Erik nodded to himself. Yes, he would take his not-so-small fortune (at least the Shah paid him well, although he had already converted most of the gold coins he was being paid with into gems so that they would be more portable when he left) and go back to Paris, and then? Well, he would decide once he got there. Now he just had to figure out a plan that left him outside the borders of Persia with his hide still intact.

 _(Chapter 1 and well begun – Please read and review. Note to those who have read the original version of this, no, I am not really_ _ **changing**_ _the basic story so much as adding in some of the scenes and lines that I wasn't brave (or imaginative) enough to insert the first time out – let's call this the unabridged edition.)_


	2. Chapter 2 Catch Me If You Can

**Chapter 2 - Catch Me If You Can**

 ** _(With thanks to I'm a fire truck, Mel2121, and MyraValhallah and a big welcome to anyone else creeping in from the shadows, oh, and while I'm at it, I own none of the original POTO characters, I just love to play in this sandbox.)_**

At first, Erik considered going to the Sultan and making a deal with him. For all his myriad flaws, Shah Hamaad Ben Garazza was a man of his word - when you could get him to give it! Of course, he could twist words around like a dervish on a prayer quest could twist himself, so Erik soon gave up on that idea. Then he considered just abandoning it all and running, but that would just get the men he worked with tortured to discover if **they** knew anything, and while some of his workers deserved a sharp clout on the head for stupid behavior, he really did not hate them **that** much. And the clock was ticking, every day he expected the sharp breath of paranoia to penetrate the sheer glee of relocating into "this marvelous place."

No, whatever plan Erik came up with, it had to be 1 - Public enough that they could not guess just how sneaky Erik was trying to be, 2- Involving only himself (He was **not** having any **more** lives on his head especially not his one friend.) and 3 - Soon - because Erik's inner alarms were already screaming in warning, and, lousy though his life tended to be at times, suicidal he was **not!** He also did not want to end up "just another one of the Shahmam's victims," and **she** was actually the most lethal of the pair. He already had made his preparations, he knew the appropriate schedules, he had stashed everything important enough to take along, but **how** was he going to get out of this place without being hunted like a feral dog? Then Erik had an idea. Shahmam Inessa was going to condemn him anyway, but if he **used** that . . .

The next afternoon, Erik stood in front of the Shahmam, the only woman in the world whom he hated as much as his (hopefully late, **certainly** unlamented) mother, and contemplated the plan he had made. By this time tomorrow, either he would be free, and on his way to the border, or he would be dead. Either way, he would be shut of this stupid, bloodthirsty, insane bitch! It wasn't really the thirst for gore that made him hate her, but the fact that it was **she** who had pointed out to her son that his architectural skills were not as valuable as his ability to kill. It was she who had arranged that he should become the Shah's primary assassin.

 _Once I get free of this place_ , Erik vowed to his somewhat erratic conscience, _I swear I will never kill again. I've choked on enough gore to last me a dozen years, thanks mostly to_ _ **her.**_ And with that, he took a deep breath, bowed in such a way that it was an insult, so as to infuriate that tiny brain (and ensure that he got sent to the torture chamber he had just designed.)

Actually, it didn't take much needling, since this was a favorite trick of hers, that a designer should die on (or in) what they had just made for her, while she watched in comfort from the next room. But Erik had a few tricks of his own, and he had deliberately tweaked the design of the room, and the mirror maze, too.

An hour later, having negotiated the mirror maze without a hitch, he was at the central location's one feature, a thing he privately called the hanging tree. Grasping and twisting certain branches in a particular rhythm and pattern, he opened a hole not visible from the windows he had carefully angled, sacrificed his outer cloak to the noose, and slipped through the floor into a corridor none knew was there save himself. Because of the way he had positioned the cloak, they would think that he was still in it until they got within a few feet of the tree, which, considering the way the Shahmam hired the biggest, stupidest guards around, might take all night!

Erik was clean out of the palace grounds not long after, in a burka he had stashed in a strategic location, along with his cache of gems (quilted into a specially made suit,). the only freely given gift anybody had ever given him (from Nadir, and while Erik had no earthly idea when or **if,** he would ever use the information inside the book in any practical way, he treasured the gesture just the same.) and just enough local currency to get a seat on the next run of the Orient Express, as well as feed himself until he was over the border. He knew **her** ways, she would not think to look outside the palace walls until long after he was out of her grasp. Aside from that - no one among the entire court of the Shah would think of wearing clothing made for the opposite sex, no matter how compelling the reason might be. Tradition still ruled this land, as much as, if not more so than, **any** of the royal family.

Two hours later, the feeder train to Istanbul pulled out of the station, and Erik breathed freely, relaxing for the first time in several years. He was on his way **home** now. He just hoped that someday, Nadir would manage to shake off the shackles that kept **him** tied to that pair of demons in human form. Once they pulled into Istanbul, he dumped the burka (surely someone in this town could use one!), pulled out a collapsible broad-brimmed hat, and got himself a ticket. The clerk was busy enough that he never even looked up, just made change and shoved the pasteboard piece over. Erik was just as glad that it was getting late in the evening, and got into his berth, making sure that the do not disturb sign was on the door even before the train pulled out. He never slept well unless there was a lockable door, and expected to spend a fair portion of the trip just making up for not sleeping well for what probably amounted to several years.. Sleep first, food could wait!

 ** _(Please read and review - and we will get to what the title of that book is - later.)_**


	3. Chapter 3 To The Lakeside

**Chapter 3 – To The Lakeside**

Really, it was no one's fault. Everyone who was involved was the victim of circumstances. Even the horse. Well, maybe, if you stretched the point far enough, you could blame the bees, but, since the bees **and** the horse were all dead on the field, (actually the grass of the local park, but anyway) what use was there in blaming anybody?

It happened this way. A rich, half-soused, young noble (whom I will not name, since he really doesn't come into this story except as a walk-on) was showing off his high-spirited new horse to his drinking buddies in one of the local parks when the horse got a little too close to a bee's hive. Normally, this would not have been a problem, but, as chance would have it, the branch that the hive was on was already more than halfway cracked off from a previous strong gust of wind, and the bees inside were already stirred up from the shaking **even before** they hit the horse (or he hit them – no one could honestly say which occurred first.) Whomever impacted first, the poor horse wound up severely stung, throwing his rider in the process. While this was fortunate in that most of the bees missed hitting the humans with that much bigger target so close by, the rider did wind up with a broken (in two places) arm out of the deal, as well as a nasty knock on the head that left him semi-conscious for over ten minutes. Since his friends were mostly all either on foot, fighting off bees, too drunk to be effective, or trying to help their friend get up, the pain-maddened beast was out of sight before anyone could catch him.

Gustave and Helena Daae were not even paying attention to the city around them. They were walking back to their hotel, having just had a nice, quiet dinner with some old friends of Gustave's, specifically, Professor and Madame Valerius – (Gustave had first met the couple in Sweden, when the Professor was on his Grand Tour of Europe and rapidly falling in love with both Sweden and his pretty native guide, Greta.) After all, it was a very rare thing for the Daaes to have an entire evening all to themselves, since their daughter was generally accompanying them. Not that they didn't love their Christine, but once in a while, it was nice to be just the two of them again, for a little time. While they did hear the sound of a horse galloping, this was not an uncommon occurrence in a Parisian park. Neither realized the situation until the horse was less than ten feet away, and by then, it was too late to do anything really helpful.

To give credit where it is due, Gustave tried his best to stop or slow the horse, and, not so coincidentally, to give his Helene a chance to escape, but, even armed with his dagger (something Gustave **always** carried) there is not much one single man can do against a beast that outweighs him about 9 times over, unless the animal is in a co-operative frame of mind. He died, still trying to protect his wife, and Helene unfortunately followed within a minute or two. (And if there was a Valkyrie escort waiting to escort Gustave into his next life, well, it only seemed fitting, but that is not really part of this story, either.)

The end result of all this uproar was that Christine Daae was only seven years old when her parents both died in a "tragic accident in the suburbs of Paris." Christine was being watched over (alright, baby-sat, but they didn't call it that in those days) that evening by a friend of the Valerius's, a Madame Giry, and had not been with them at the time. The Professor had only found out what had happened through the local paper the next day, which had the accidental demise of "a visiting musician and his wife" blazoned across the front page. When Professor Valerius and his wife went to the local constabulary to get what information they could, no one in authority seemed to know, or care, about the child that couple had left behind, or have any suggestions as to what should happen to her. The only thing the Professor managed to do was retrieve Gustave's dagger, and make burial arrangements for the bodies. After all, Christine had not been a witness, had few to no current assets, nor could she even speak much French, so she was not very interesting to the Gendarmerie, or to the local politicians either.

A very subdued Greta showed up at her friend's doorstep in the early afternoon, dagger in hand, while the Professor was busy finding an undertaker. Christine did not even need to be verbally told anything. The mere sight of **that** dagger, in anyone else's hand, not to mention the fact that she had not been retrieved this morning from this place,was hint enough to deduce the facts.

Taking a deep breath, as well as the dagger into her small hands, Christine looked up at these relative strangers. In Swedish, she asked, her voice low and unhappy, "When should I pack?"

If Greta was a bit startled by the question, Madame Giry was mostly baffled, since her store of Swedish vocabulary (and custom) was next to non-existent. Regaining her voice, and her wits, Greta countered with "Why should you pack at all? Where would you go?"

Christine shrugged, trying to pull off an air of confidence that she in no way felt. "I need to find a teacher, to teach me to be a bard. Papa would wish it, and it is what I have always wanted to be. It is my - my Wyrd. **_(Author's note: Wyrd is a Destiny, rather like the concept of Kismet - a pretty much unavoidable fate.)"_**

Left orphaned so young, and with not much in the way of family assets, after much thought and discussion, and a brief trial period in the Valerius household which did not work out all that well, (the servants were unnerved by this odd little girl who wasn't crying after her parents were gone, and the fact that she carried that dagger **everywhere** didn't help much, either.) **and** the double funeral, the Valerius's did the only practical thing left that they could think of that would answer to Christine's already expressed plans for herself (and, not so coincidentally, that their own financial picture would permit), and sponsored Christine into the ballet dormitories at the Opera Garnier, where their friend Madame Giry had recently been appointed Ballet Mistress (and where she and her daughter lived). It was that, or turn the poor child out to starve on the streets, or put her into an orphanage (where she would probably **also** starve), and while Antoinette Giry could be harsh when needed, neither she nor Greta was **that** cold. Granted, at seven years old, Christine was a bit young to make dancing her ultimate career choice, but, where else should she go? Sweden was out, since there was no one left there to take the child in, and Helene and her one surviving brother had not spoken to each other for years, even before Helene got married. At least this route put Christine in the correct field - entertainment, and what else was there to do, after all?

Madame Giry started Christine's new life with a tour of the Opera House Complex. Seeing the stairway down to the sub-cellar near the ground level horse stables, Christine asked, "What is downstairs, Madame?"

"Well, if you go down five floors, there is a lake."

"A lake? Truly? May I see it?"

"No, little one, it is not safe. You might fall in. _Or, worse, you might encounter – him._ Now come along, there is much more to see."

Christine held her peace, but inwardly scoffed at such a naive attitude. She had been swimming for years, water did not intimidate her in the least. Carefully marking the route in her head, she resolved to go check out this lake just as soon as she was free to do so.

It was three days later, in the evening, when Christine actually managed to get some time free. And she snuck down five floors, a change of clothes under her arm, to find a perfectly good, (if a little cold) lake right under her feet _. I can swim, and remember my family here, maybe even build an altar and worship the Allfather – since I don't think they would understand what I was doing in that "Chapel" with the angel picture that Madame showed me. After all, that silly maid of Madame Valerius practically went into screaming fits when_ _ **she**_ _saw me praying -_ Accordingly, she slid into the water, near the central staircase, leaving her other clothes by the large pillar, and began her water routine, starting with kicks to loosen up her leg muscles.

The sound of rhythmic splashing distracted Erik as he was working on his masterpiece (not that Don Juan Triumphant was anywhere **near** completion,) but still, if someone was swimming close enough to his lair that he could hear them, he'd better check it out right away. Taking off his shoes, socks, vest, and jacket, and the mask, since he preferred not to swim in all that gear, he went out to see what was happening.

What he saw was a child, with darkish blonde hair, swimming strongly towards the bank which held his small gondola, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was there. Reaching the dock, she pulled herself up, looking over the boat with what seemed to be curious interest, but not actually touching anything. Then she sat down, to rest, or so it seemed, dangling her feet towards the water, looking back towards the direction of the main stairwell.

He hesitated, wondering if it would be better to say nothing, or scare her off, or continue to observe. In a few seconds, the girl turned her head, looked intensely at him, and gulped, slipping onto one knee, in an attitude resembling - prayer?

She spoke, "Wow, Allfather Odin, the ravens really messed up your face when they took your eye. What do you wish of me, and can you tell me if Mama and Papa got to You safely?" All this came out in a rush, while Erik, stupefied by **this** reaction, just stared at her, not able to understand why she wasn't screaming. Or running.

"Child – who are you, and why are you here?" He finally managed to find his voice.

"Great Odin –" she spoke again, very softly.

 _Odin? She thinks_ _ **I'm**_ _a God? Is_ _ **she**_ _insane, or have_ _ **I**_ _finally slipped over the edge into madness? Wait, she's not speaking French, that's – Swedish, I think._ Erik had spent a little time in Sweden – not altogether voluntarily – on his way to Russia, but languages had always come incredibly easily to him. Switching languages, he asked again. "Who are you? What is your name? How did you come to be here?"

"Allfather, my name is Christine Daae. I am here because the Dance Mistress brought me to this place after my parents died. I came down to the water to swim, to keep my body limber and strong, as it should be."

"Child, I am **not** a God, not Odin. I am-"

"You are highly favored by him then, to have his looks – do you also have his traits? Are you a warrior and a bard?"

About to scoff at the concept of being favored by any deity at all, much less highly, Erik paused, struck by the wording of that question. If he were honest with himself, he would have to say he was both. He could, and did (when necessary), fight well and effectively, and he certainly had music in his head – "Well, yes, but –"

Christine was chattering again. "The Dance Mistress wants me to be a dancer – she says it will be a good thing to learn – and maybe it will, but I want to be a **bard** , like Papa. Can you, maybe, tell me how one becomes a bard? Is it hard? Does it take a long time?"

Erik was still struck nearly speechless by the fact that she was looking straight at his malformed face, full on, and had not screamed, nor run, nor fainted. "How - old are you, Christine?" he asked, stalling for a bit more time so that his brain could hopefully get over the shock that this mere babe was treating him like a deity, not a monster.

"I am seven. If I cannot call you Odin, then what shall I call you?"

"Call me Erik. Come into my house, it is cold out here, and you are starting to shiver. But you must promise to tell no-one else about me being here."

"Well, alright." And Christine, who was secretly convinced that this **was** Odin, who, according to the tales, sometimes took another name to walk amongst men, went into the strange house on the lake, with the man currently calling himself Erik.

 _ **i felt we needed to establish 2 things earlier - that Christine is pretty much fearless, and that the Valerius family could not raise This kid. So what does anyone think? Please read and review.**_


End file.
